The Promise
by Jungle Jenna
Summary: Christine returns to fulfill her promise to Erik, after he let her leave with Raoul. But whatever could this promise be? Read and find out!
1. L'Epoque

_L'Epoque_

On January 13th, 1881, chorus member and newly established diva, Christine Daae, reappeared with her proclaimed suitor, Raoul de Chagny, after their two day disappearance throughout the performance of Charles Gounod's _Faust._ Mlle. Daae, as Marguerite, was appealing to the angels to take her soul to heaven when the lights flickered; thereupon discovering she was gone from the stage. Upon further speculation, it is noted that a trapdoor was found in the area Daae was standing when the lights were cut. Detectives are still on this strange case at the Opera Garnier.

--Mon. Pierre Flambeaux

"Just like the press to be hot on this case," Raoul muttered in annoyance as he read his morning paper. "They can't show the least amount of respect towards a couple who've undergone supreme torture from a cantankerous mad- man."

He tossed the paper on the dining room table and addressed Christine head on, who was seated in the far corner, her fingers mechanically knitting a red winter scarf. "Detectives Aston and Beauvais are due to arrive this afternoon for an interview."

Christine nodded her head, a few golden curls dangling before her eyes. "What will you say to them, Raoul?"

"I will say nothing more than the truth," he replied confidently with his hands clasped behind his back. "More important is what you will say to them."

For the first time in three days, Christine looked into Raoul's eyes, and he saw they were filled with terror. "I swore on my honor to not disgrace him," she said in a hoarse whisper. "All I ask of you now is to do the same."

"How can you say such things after what he put you through? He created a false illusion, took advantage of your innocence, and forced you to stay with him in his putrid home!" Raoul circled the table to stand nearer Christine but did not reach out to embrace her. "All I ask of you now is to keep our safety intact. I worked so hard to free you, and I'd die if you were taken from me again."

In as equal a pleading voice as his, Christine cried: "Raoul, listen to me!" He sunk to his knees before her, and she reached out to encase his hands in her own. "Listen to me; before he released us he said to me he wouldn't live much longer. It was apparent in his voice and eyes, so I know he was telling the truth. When he feels death close at hand, he will report to the Persian and he will post it in the obituaries for me to see. He said: "Before your young man takes you as his wife, please return to your poor Erik to bury him in secret."'

Christine's hand fluttered to his cheek. "I chose to be with you because I love you, Raoul," a tear slid down her cheek. "But he breathed life into dreams I never thought I could have, and to think if they find him because of us—I cannot bear it! Let him die peacefully, let his face and mind go unknown because there are too many people who will take it for granted, and will exploit it."

Raoul studied Christine's weary face, so filled with sadness and pity. "Whatever happened to the little girl with the red scarf by the sea?" Raoul questioned aloud.

Christine stroked Raoul's face. "She grew up," she said.

When Detectives Aston and Beauvais arrived at the Chagny estate, Raoul escorted them to the drawing room where Christine sat trembling, hastily attempting to gather her reverie.

"Messieurs, this is my fiancée, Mademoiselle Christine Daae," Raoul said with a wave of his hand. "Darling, this is Detective Aston," he indicated the stout young man with a trim beard and moustache, "and Detective Beauvais."

Beauvais was an older man with impeccable taste in clothes and manner, although one could not be deceived by his outward suavity. He attended to both Raoul and Christine with warm regard, and studied them with his warm, gleaming brown eyes. "Mademoiselle," Beauvais said, "it has come to our knowledge there is an immense possibility you were abducted that night during your performance through a trapdoor in the stage floor."

Christine rolled her eyes discreetly. "It was laid in such a strategic manner, it was awhile before anyone spotted it and suddenly Mon. Aston and I both found this case was much more complex than we originally assumed."

"We were ordered to pay you a visit to ask you a few questions about that night and of the time of your absence," piped Aston as he pulled a leather bound notebook from inside his coat. "At any time you feel offended or unable to answer any of these questions, please notify Detective Beauvais or me but we strongly encourage you to answer every one of these questions to your fullest degree."

Christine nodded. "I understand."

And with that, Aston opened his notebook and there began the interview. "Mlle., what do you remember at the time of your disappearance?" Aston retrieved his pen and ink.

"The whole amphitheater went dark as I was singing," Christine began with measure and stability, "and the floor slid from beneath my feet. My mind had no time to register these haste occurrences, until later when I awoke in a familiar bedroom with a man's face above me."

"And you have no recollection of this man taking you?" Beauvais questioned, his fingers stroking his chin.

"No, I was drugged with chloroform," she replied. "On more than one occasion—by the same man."

"Do you know this man?"

"Yes, I do," she said tightly. "He was my voice teacher, who fell into the unfortunate circumstance of loving me. But I was in love with another and attempted to leave with Raoul after my performance as Marguerite. As you can see, we didn't make it too far."

"You could not simply tell this man you did not love him?" Beauvais asked. He was genuinely intrigued by this strange unfolding tale.

"If you knew him as I did, messieurs, you would do the same."

Silence permeated the drawing room, and they each sipped their tea for a moment. Aston resumed the discussion. "Can you tell me about this man, Mlle?" he said with an air of authority. The interview was growing too serious to retreat on any details.

"His name was Erik, and he had the astounding ability for music. It was not such commonplace opera as we sing today, as it is filled with the deepest of human emotions we strive so hard to deny," she explained. "Erik was a man of heaven and earth, he could either create or destroy, and this was fully dictated by his volatile emotions."

"You speak as if you cannot decide whether to love or hate him," Beauvais interjected.

"He was not a bad man," Christine was growing defensive. "He cared for my every need when I was at his mercy, and I am indebted to him for that! Yet when I was with him, there was nothing I could feel but pity and fear. You'd think a man with such talent and mind as he would be among the ranks of kings and emperors, but in all reality he was a lonely and bitter man who believed he could be nothing other than a voice through a wall."

Christine was speaking now to herself more than she was Detectives Aston and Beauvais, and all three men exchanged quizzical expressions. "You speak of Erik as if he no longer exists," Aston speculated.

"When I awoke in Erik's home, he immediately flew at me with accusations of my betrayal," she recounted steely. She had strived to forget those hours of misery, yet they were trudged in her wake again and again. "Though he was angry and hurt, he begged for my hand in marriage with increasing hysteria. Raoul and another man had been looking for me at this time, and when they finally reached us Erik decided that he would explode the opera house with rigged barrels of gunpowder if I didn't accept his proposal. Excuse me."

Christine reached to the tray with their dispatched tea cups and half eaten cookies for her handkerchief. She dabbed her wet eyes before resuming her story. "Eventually I agreed to marry him, and he released Raoul and the Persian from captivity. He immediately… killed the Persian…. Erik said he could not trust him to reveal his identity. Then he turned to me and Raoul. We were holding each other, and rage suddenly overwrought his being. He lashed at Raoul and me, and there was a scuffle. I was afraid for Raoul's safety and I took a bronze figurine of a scorpion and struck him to the temple."

Sobs squelched Christine's voice and she curled into herself with overwhelming grief. Raoul wrapped his arms around her petite frame and comforted her with his warmth and loving words.

"We are finished here today," Raoul stated with conviction.

"Is that all the information you have to offer?" Aston clarified.

"We have given you all there is to know."

Christine remained in the drawing room, and observed the two men at the window as they climbed into their brougham. Raoul appeared at the door frame when they left and Christine turned to face him. "Thank you," she whispered."

_A/N: I have really wanted to write a Leroux continuation for a long time. This first chapter may seem a little choppy, but as the story progresses I assure you it will get better and will make more sense. I hope you leave me a review to let me know what you think, whether good or bad, and how I can improve in later chapters. I also hope you return for the next installment._

_Jungle Julia_


	2. Erik is Dead

_Erik is Dead_

Raoul found Christine resting on a marble bench in the immense garden with her knitting needles and red yarn. The unfinished scarf drifted delicately against the frigid breeze, and Raoul instinctively shivered.

"Christine, come inside before you freeze," opulent white clouds spewed from his mouth in rhythm to his heavy breathing.

"I needed to be alone," she said quietly and fingered a frosty rosebud that had wilted months prior.

Raoul seated himself beside her and secured the wool blanket he'd been using for himself around her shoulders. He figured she needed it more than he did.

"Have I done something wrong?" with much timidity, Raoul voiced his most upsetting inclination since they were freed a fortnight ago. "I can't help to notice how you avoid eye contact and my touch. I understand the loss you may feel right now, yet you must know I am here for you to comfort you when you need it most."

He gently folded her hands with his and pressed them to his cheeks to warm them. "I want you to trust me, Christine."

"Oh Raoul, I do trust you," Christine gazed sadly into his pleading eyes. "It's just… Despite the things he put us through, I still consider Erik a dear friend and mentor… He was there at a time when life was hollow and my one friend and confidante was dead."

Christine fished through the inside of her fur coat. Here she deposited a newspaper clipping in Raoul's open palm. He raised it to the light and read the miniature black lettering: _Erik is dead._

"Do you see now?" she said, her voice tremulous.

"Will you go through with it?"

"I must," she said, "It was a promise."

She rearranged her heavy skirts and collected her supplies into an embroidered velvet bag. "I plan to leave early this next morning," she explained as they walked arms linked, back to the chateau. "It won't take long, but I need to be there at a time when no one will be up and about."

"You can't do it tonight?"

"No, I have already considered the possibility. There is a performance tonight, and there are usually too many crowds lounging around smoking their cigars and sipping their fine wine."

"Even though I am allowing you to do this doesn't mean I approve," Raoul muttered coldly.

"I don't want to do this as much as anyone else," she replied. "There is nothing to fret; I will have returned by the time you awaken."

Raoul held the mahogany door open for Christine, and followed her inside to the blessed warmth of his grand abode.

Christine tenderly kissed Raoul's temple the next morning before dusk, and caressed his unkempt hair. She fluttered from the chateau like a fearful bird to the brougham awaiting her at the front.

"To the _Palais Garnier_, Monsieur," she said to the coachman.

She lurched forward as the horses set into motion, and attempted to settle into a comfortable fashion but the quiver of her heart and nerves prevented her from relaxation. Sleet and snow lashed furiously against the windows. _What a lovely start to a lovely day_, Christine thought sarcastically.

On the way to the opera, Christine's thoughts were filled with Raoul and his gleaming face. Her heart softened considerably and the oncoming task at hand didn't seem as horrifying as before.

"When I return, he will still be asleep," she thought aloud, "and I can bake him the _crepes suzette_ he loves so dearly."

By the time they'd reached the outskirts of Paris, the snowstorm had lightened and Christine had a mental list gathered of all the things she and Raoul would do when she returned.

The city was as gray and glum as a cemetery. The streets and walks were barren, and it was no mystery as to why. It was quite foolish in certain respects to be bounding around at such an early hour—and with such weather! Christine worried about the coachman sitting outside, and willed them to arrive sooner so there would be a dry place for him and the horses to rest. She wiped the foggy windows with her gloves, but there was only white that met her sight.

A few moments later, there was a loud rapping on the brougham's top, followed by a voice. "We are almost there, Mademoiselle!" the coachman shouted. "The opera house is straight ahead!"

It wasn't very long before the white cleared and Christine could see he was directing the horses to the opera's stable. She retrieved her fur coat and folded the many blankets provided to her for the ride, and placed them neatly on the adjacent seat. The brougham eased to a halt and the coachman graciously opened the door for Christine and offered an assisting hand as she climbed out. "I don't know any other way to thank you," she said as she pressed a respectable sum of money into his gloved hand. "I won't be too long."

In Christine's pocket was the key to the Rue Scribe entrance. It was a curious key with spindly curves and intricate weaving. It mirrored Erik's old fashioned taste exactly and it was somewhat lovely, yet it served as a burden on Christine's heart. It was the key to the Pandora's Box that had lead to the recent disasters inflicted on her life.

Christine mechanically inserted the key into the gate, and passed to the other side with no trace of uncertainty or fear. That threshold had been crossed a long time ago.

Christine weaved through dozens of halls and descended many staircases, sometimes traveling through parts so small and compact even the rats felt claustrophobic. She could feel the foul air grating her lungs. There was an occasion or two where her sleeve rubbed against the stone walls, and she recoiled with a sharp wheeze. The deeper the trail led, the more the tunnels dripped with mold and festering slime. It was a place where only a true dead man could dwell.

Christine knew she'd arrived to the third cellar when she could distinguish the silhouettes of the old stage props from _La Prophete_, racks of moth eaten costumes, and other odd trinkets. The ladder in which Joseph Buquet was found hanged still stood, and Christine gladly took a route to avoid going anywhere near it.

She knew she was close. He'd specifically explained he would be at the little sprouting fountain he'd held her that first meeting, after she had fainted at the smell of his pestilential hands—quite sentimental, actually.

Christine followed a tunnel ever deeper until a sudden gust of air touched her face and golden locks. Her arms flayed about but all she found was an open space. She found the wall nearest to her and trailed the circumference of the room. The damp air was choking her and she was too frightened too call out.

_You vile wretch!_ She thought. _You know how dreadfully afraid of the dark I am._

Christine never crumbled under the weight of her repugnant duties, and she wept with exuberance when the lilting trickle and splash of water was detected through the insurmountable darkness.

"Yes, oh yes!" she cried as she dropped to her knees and let the water mingle with her hands.

A flutter resounded behind her and she hastily scurried to her feet to see a pair of glittering eyes boring into her.

"Erik," she gasped. "You frightened me."

Those eyes that yearn one moment and breathe fire the next, came closer.

"Why have you kept your Erik so long?"


	3. the Promise

_**The Promise**_

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera, but Gaston leroux does. This story is an elaboration on a beautiful picture by RipperBlackStaff, on deviant Art. I'll be putting up a link in my profile for anyone interested to see.

Chapter Three: the Promise

Christine was there, once again, in his house; in his silent, cold, and wet grave. It was the same as when she left; spotless and tastefully furnished. It appeared as any other Parisian home, excluding the clammy air and echo of water dripping. Erik stood before her in booming health, maskless and crisp in one of his finest black suits.

"Ah, my Christine, you are so kind to me," the devil cooed as he poured her a glass of Tokay wine. "What did I do to deserve such a gleaming angel?"

She'd drained the contents in one painful gulp before he'd lifted his own to toast, as if there were anything to celebrate.

"Detectives Aston and Beauvais believe you are dead," she said stiffly.

Christine didn't spot the sickly twitch to Erik's decayed mouth.

"Raoul believes I'm here to bid you adieu."

He sat beside her on the couch with his wine glass. "The fool," he muttered. "He doesn't know the difference between his property and someone else's when he sees it."

"I'm no one's property, especially yours," she gritted through teeth.

"Oh, but what good would your promise serve if you did not belong to me?" he sneered.

"Erik!" Christine leapt from the couch. "I know what I promised, and it was never to stay here."

She had thought he was a changed man the last she saw of him, willing to sacrifice his grisly desires for her happiness and Raoul's safety. But here he was now, the same in his manipulative ways.

She teetered warily on her heels as he rose from the couch and came to tower over her with an unrelenting stare. "What difference does it make, Christine?" he whispered. "I've got you where I want you. The last time you may ever walk through that door is to break the engagement off with your handsome suitor."

"Why do torture me so?"

She didn't attempt to hide her tears. If there was any way to show the misery Erik caused her, she'd express it with unbridled glee.

"I torture you?" he snickered. "My dear, my lovely Christine--if this is what you call torture, I'll gladly show you what that other room is all about. I'll give you a test run, so to speak, with no charge!"

He gripped her shoulders and forced her towards the cruel room made of glass that whispered unspeakable deaths and anguish. Erik cackled as she beat his chest with tiny child hands, swatting his face like she would do a fly. "Erik! Erik, please!" she sobbed. "What would you have me do? Tell me, and I'll do it! I'll try as long as Raoul and I are left to peace!"

Erik grabbed her wrists and dragged her arms criss cross, like a straight jacket. She trembled with anger, sadness, and fear. How could she have come back? She only abided by his request to spare the authorities. As if they could capture him! He'd always find some way to escape, to find her again and pine for that life she refused to give. Christine had thought by misleading Detectives Aston and Beauvais, Erik could live in peace forever in his cellar, disturbing noone but himself.

"You know as well as I that the only way I'll grant your boy peace is to have you as my wife, and the gendarmes far from here," he said, eerily calm. "And I applaud you, Christine, for your magnificent talents as an actress. You have no idea what your loyalty means to your Erik."

Stupid, stupid Christine! She'd never felt as much of a used, tricked fool as she did then.

"How much time?" her voice cracked underneath the burden of this foul situation. "How much time would you permit me?"

"As much time as you need to make it as convincing as possible," he replied coolly. "Erik knows as well as anyone that you'll do what you need to accomplish the task accordingly."

Christine nodded half-heartedly, her eyes trained on the carpet and thoughts of Raoul's face flooding her mind. How was it that the people she loved most in this world were taken from her by cruel twists of fate and, in this case, a heartless extortionist? Was there any way to escape? She dodged Erik's presence and searched for her winter coat. Willing her bones and muscles to obey, she tackled the coat on as if it were for the first time, declining Erik's gesture for assistance.

"I expect you to contact noone, not your Mamma Valerius nor former Opera acquaintances. Wear your hair back, disguise your face with scarves and sash. Society has come to know your face, Christine, and anyone who recognizes you transforms into a goldmine for the authorities."

"Wouldn't you suppose people would suspect foul play at my sudden disappearance?" she countered. "Do you, honestly, believe anyone other than you to be ignorant enough to presume I just had cold feet, or was visiting relatives in Sweden?"

"Don't fret your pretty head, Christine," he soothed," I will take care of everything."

"What will you do, Erik," Christine's fear was steadfastly mounting.

"I have told you already; you do your part and Erik shall do his."

They stood in silence for a long time, Erik's gold eyes darting every which way upon Christine, an ever pressing smile on his face. In one giant motion, he swept down across the floor at her feet and kissed the hem of her dress, as he did on their first true meeting.

"Oh, Christine," he sighed, "you shall be the happiest of women. I shall not disappoint! But... oh! You have no idea how long I've waited for a wife of my own..."

He advanced closer, close enough to send Christine flailing against the couch pillows. And Erik came further, yet. He cupped her face with his moldy hands and stared into her wide, blue eyes.

"You have made Erik the happiest man alive!" he said, beaming.

"I think it's time for me to leave," Christine whispered, uncomfortable. "Raoul will wonder where I am."

She gathered some of her wits and Erik escorted her from the house by the lake. Before he let her leave to the brougham, he gripped her arm with an iron fist and said, "If you so much as disobey your Erik, he will come for you."

--000

Upon the grand tier in box five, Christine listened to the silence of the amphitheater. All other times of the day, attendees bustle in and out, actors pour their heart out in song, and the opera staff tidies up after the upper crust Parisian society. It's a fast, unrelenting day here at the Opera Garnier, but a place she longs to be.

That is, until a few mere moments ago.

Erik's words ground through her head mercilessly. There were plenty of holes to slip through to prevent the inevitable circumstances, but Erik would find them and know how to drag Christine right back through the way she came. Not only would Raoul lose his right to live, he would chain Christine like a disobedient dog to his side. No—she would do what she needed to earn Erik's unwavering trust, whether she was genuine or false.

What would she tell Raoul? Could she slip from the chateau one night, unbeknownst?

Disgusted, Christine shoved the idea from her mind. It would require such heartless fiends to betray the ones they loved, without so much a word or explanation.

But, either way, she'd be doing just that.

It seemed no matter what, there was no way for Christine to have her well deserved happiness. Erik was always there to be answered to.

Christine checked her watch and realized it was early enough for the opera house to waken from a cold, disrupted slumber. It was only a fortnight ago, but people remained in shambles over the murder of Count Philippe and disappearance of Mlle. Daae.

She left without a trace of her presence and sought out her brougham, stationed comfortably in the opera stables. She avoided eye contact with the old gentleman driver.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon, Mlle." He speculated. "Is everything alright?"

Her head bobbed like it had been all day. "Yes, just some minor business to tend to is all. I'd very much like to head home now."

"As you wish."

A/N: It's been a long time since updates, but the inspiration has has been kicking lately. For anyone who knows how to create a link, please message me with detailed instructions, please.


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